Your Throat I Take Grasp
by Elenscaie
Summary: Cat's in her cell and Spencer wants to once again experience the thrill and the rush of choking her. He's practically jonesing for it. So does he? Of course. She's his, after all.


The guard is gone.

The guard is gone and he's reaching though the cold gray scale of metal that bars him from her and his fingers curl and clench around her throat to cut off whatever incendiary comment is about to spill forth from her lips. A dull pain spreads outward from his scalp as his head connects with the bars, his breath joins hers in a mingle of warmth and sharp little hisses when his nails slice past skin.

The desire to bleed her out runs a livewire of lust straight down to his groin, stirs arousal and anger in a misshapen swell of _lust longing livid rage_.

It settles hunger within him in the shape of teeth begging to dig into viscera. In the slickness of his tongue at the thought of drawing it all along the red ruin of her throat. In the painful press of his cock against the strict set of his suit pants.

It's gasping and gutted through with sharp shallow breaths, but her voice comes out clear as the cold bitter loathing he harbors for the both of them. "Come on, Spencie— you've made your point. You're— in control— I'm doing what— you want me to do."

Her chest rises quickly; his eyes slip from her face to watch it fall, his fingers clamping over her throat even as he wishes for his nails to score into the skin of her breasts, draw down lines of ruby red into the flesh there. Mark it up. Mark _her_ up—scratch at her, claw at her, carve into her—_she's his_.

The word _love_ is... inadequate for what they have, for what he feels for her, yet he cannot dredge up any other word to substitute for such. Hatred does not suffice: if she is his then she is his possession, his toy, his... _treasure_.

Regardless of how it brings revulsion and bile to the tip of his tongue, it is the truth. She is special, powerful, has a mind to match up to his.

He owns her.

For him to own her, he has to keep her. Care for her. Not that she _wants or needs_ him to look after her, god no, but she is his possession.

And he... he wants what's his to stay with him. Stay safe. Loath her all he wishes, he wants her and he needs her and he loves her all the same.

"Trying to act as if— as if you don't give a damn is—" Her words crackle and pop off into a series of short groans; he grits his teeth— of course she's getting off on this, her arousal was made clear during all that time ago, when he managed to get his hands on her and she grinned up at him so wide, so smug, so amused—_entertained—_with the knowledge of what she set off inside of him.

"Shut up," he barely manages to rasp out, voice gone gritty— grittier, really, with the weight of bitterness and the bleak reality of it all forming a fist inside his stomach, solid as stone and breaking off into shards scraping and grating at the very marrow of him. "_I want you to shut up._"

Her only response is to sigh and slip her fingers through the bars. Rage nearly splits the sliver of self-control he still clings onto in quarters when he registers first fingers, then nails, sliding around his throat. He goes to jerk away from her and comes to discover just how much her nails simulate the barbed tip of a shiv.

"Oh, Spencie, there goes your control." Points of pain blinking up from his flesh, and then tiny beads of blood that she's rubbing and smearing into his skin. Their faces are centimeters apart; he flits his gaze to her lips before refocusing, staring at her, dead-eyed.

He opens his mouth, whether to snarl at her to shut up or to simply snap back that his control is _not_ slipping, he doesn't know. Her nails choose _then_ to prove to be as sharp as a shiv and rake down the nape of his neck to slice a bloody circle straight down to the hollow of his throat.

Her voice comes out in a breathy whisper: "Isn't this cute? I knew you'd look good if I made you bleed." She moves to his hair, tugs and twists at his curls, scratches firmly at his scalp. Her expression is one of amusement, something like fondness glittering back at him between her teeth. "Sweet of you to come for a visit, I needed some stimulation, you know?"

Neutrality in his expression is a lost cause, but he bites his tongue and settles for watching her flex and stretch her arms a little. She tosses her head and her throat pushes against his fingers; they tighten, prick his nails a fair bit farther into her flesh. That horrific sort of hunger swarms him, the urge to close teeth over flesh a scattering of sparks within his stomach, scalding him, scarring him apart, stinging tiny welts into him.

He wants to have his fun with her. Play games with her— real games, proper games, so much more than what can be shared between them amidst the constrictions of this miserable prison.

She is his.

His possession.

He _owns_ her.

He hisses out the words. "None of this matters, Cat. You're not getting anywhere with your words— I know the truth."

This piques her curiousity. "Well, if you're so sure, then tell me. Share with me what the great Doctor Spencer Reid is so goddamn confident he knows that I don't."

_Gladly._ "You're mine." He keeps steady eye contact with her, blinks not once as his lips shape the words and his tongue gives them voice: "_I own you_."

That earns him nothing more than a wider grin and a vicious yank at his hair to jerk his head up. "If you own me, then why am I still here?" She gives a lazy shrug, as if to dismiss his answer, or perhaps the question itself. "You want me, that's cute, Spencie. You want to _own_ me, well, you know— you should bother with getting me away from everyone, shouldn't you?"

It's a fact. He owns her, but he can't do much with her from here. The games they are playing are nothing compared to the games he wants them to play.

He just has to break her out first.

And that, Spencer acknowledges, as Cat gives one final rough yank at his hair and scratches down his scalp and skin, her nails slicking up over the circle of blood on his throat— that isn't as difficult as one would think.

Nothing more than a bit of patience is required.

Spencer Reid has been patient for so long, for so much of his life. He can exercise his tolerance of it all for a little while longer.

Then—

Then the real fun will begin.


End file.
